Winters

Shared laughter
Hand-drawn on the river banks of
Eternity.

Chilly philosophical evenings
To the music of old kitsch
Will be remembered days after.

People now animated and
Full of life, shall
Be gone tomorrow.
Like
Autumnal leaves, plucked
Off the Tree of Life, by
The inexorable hand of Time.

To be reminisced about
With other people, who shall
Pass away too, as silently.

And you.

All shall be reduced to mere
Dewdrops of thought,
In your head.

Everything shall fade away, like old linen
And pressed flowers; will exist only
In your head.

People and music and thoughts
And feelings and emotions
Shall melt together in uneasy comfort.
And
Shall pulse across time and space
And shall torture your present
Make you desire yesterday.

Yesterday is already dead
The future is growing old.
And today is lost in poetry.

…

Cursed is the poet
And the thinker.
Happiness is in smothering the brain
And losing ourselves in the people around us.